It's Friday night, I'm home in my condo (because there's really no place I'd rather be right now) and there are exactly two things on my mind:1. Catching some MUCH needed zzz's. Side note: I had my Friday night on Thursday night--went to ceramics class from 6-9 and then met up with a group of friends at a bowling alley for my friend C's last night in Seattle before she moves to San Fran. Couldn't let that party die...we bowled our asses off with those shimmery rainbow balls, took a shit-ton of hilarious pictures, danced around to the 90's music they were playing because it was a crappy bowling alley, and grabbed each other's boobs and asses all night (what can I say, we all love the female anatomy and have no shame when it comes to jokingly molesting each other in public). Anyway, after all that, getting into bed at 1:30 (I was the first person to leave, and the first to have to wake up today) and trying to wake up at 4:45 a.m. for work does not happen. Literally, I slept through my alarm by an hour, and got to work 30 minutes late after bolting up out of bed and getting ready in approximately 2.5 seconds. So all in all, I'm thoroughly exhausted and crave sleep.
2. How to clean an oil spill off of a concrete garage floor. Seriously, it's been on my mind for the past few days, ever since my property management company sent me a letter telling me I had to clean up the oil spill in my parking space or else the entire universe will come crashing down to its bitter end. First of all, they should be asking the "mechanic" at Grease Monkey who did my last oil change why he didn't clean up enough under the hood before I drove away (my car may be old, but she's not the one that's sloppy). Second, I suppose I should know the condo by-laws by heart now having lived here for almost two years, but I don't live in my parking space, so therefore a little oil spill doesn't really frost my cookies too much. Of course now that I have a deadline to clean up what has been made out to be an oil spill that rivals that of the Exxon Mobil fiasco, I'm frantically Googling for ideas on the most efficient quick fix. Ehow and Wikihow alone provide myriad suggestions for how to clean this effing thing--so many that I don't even know where to begin. Mostly, it's beginning to bug me that something so small and insignificant is making me feel like I'm somehow lacking in one of the major skill sets of adulthood. It also makes me feel lacking in that I don't have someone in my life who knows about car related stuff who cares about me enough to schlep on down to the auto supply store and clean up my catastrophic oil spill for me. If I did, I'd be sure to reward her greatly afterwards. But since I don't, I guess it's another life lesson to be learned.
But for now, now that I'm through with my whining about the situation, I'm going to crawl into my downy bed, curl up in the fetal position, and drift off to sleep. Then tomorrow, when I'm well rested and refreshed, I'll put on my big girl pants and proclaim "Out, damn spot!".
Oh, and one last thing (a feather for your dreams):
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